


Derek and Stiles do it, aw yeah

by tomato_greens



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:05:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomato_greens/pseuds/tomato_greens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek doesn't know what to do with his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Derek and Stiles do it, aw yeah

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HalfFizzbin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfFizzbin/gifts).



> I decided to [learn how to write sex](http://tomato-greens.tumblr.com/post/41048638151/halffizzbin-replied-to-your-post-yo-internet-so). On tumblr [here](http://tomato-greens.tumblr.com/post/41113559214/fic-derek-and-stiles-do-it-aw-yeah). Con crit is legit welcome because I don't know what I'm doing here.

Derek doesn't know what to do with his hands, or with Stiles's––they're so much bigger than he had imagined when he hadn't yet been letting Stiles touch him skin-to-skin, and they're warmer, too, than they probably should be; Stiles is human, but he runs feverishly hot. "Oh," Derek breathes out when Stiles snakes his other hand up under Derek's sweater. 

"Oh," Stiles agrees, bright-eyed and eager for it, his fingers tweaking Derek's chest hair. "You shouldn't wax so much––I like it like this."

"Erica told me to," Derek protests weakly. He can feel the tips of his ears grow warm. "She said it looked better without all the fuzz."

"Erica doesn't know everything," Stiles sing-songs, and kisses Derek's nose. "She's not the one with her hands stuck up your shirt––is she?"

Derek shakes his head  _no_ ––Stiles huffs and mutters, "Yeah, she better not be"––and dislodges Stiles carefully so that he can pull his shirt and sweater off.

"Very nice," Stiles appraises, "although a little sloppy in execution," at which point Derek growls, "I'll show you sloppy," and tears at Stiles's shirts, buttons popping in every direction like a particularly uninspiring firework.

"Really, was that necessary?" Stiles asks, admonishing, tone warm and dryly amused. The remains of his outermost shirt flaps a little as he shakes out his arms. “You owe me, now.”

“I’ve always owed you,” Derek says without thinking, and cringes. “I mean––”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Stiles says, kindly, because that’s what Stiles does, which is why Derek––owes him, among other things. They’ve known each other for six years, now, and Stiles has grown up to be a goddamn knight in shining armor underneath his layers of sweatshirt and plaid, but that’s the sort of thing Derek tends to keep to himself. Knights kill wolves, after all.

“Get that rag off,” Derek orders, tugging gently at the collar with one hand. 

“Oh, this old thing?” Stiles laughs, fluttering his eyelashes, his voice slow and honey-sweet. “But you made it all yourself.”

Derek doesn’t know what to do when Stiles gets like this: playful. “It’s––kind of you to think of me, but it wasn’t any––effort––”

“Stop, stop, never mind, it’s just painful to hear you try,” Stiles pleads, and unbuttons his cuffs as he kisses Derek on the mouth. “Right, we’ll work on the role playing.”

“No thanks,” Derek says, and shoves at Stiles’s loose shirt until it slips down over his shoulders and slides down on to the floor. “I’d rather me be me and you be you.”

“That’s because you don’t have an adventurous soul,” Stiles explains, and shoves a hand right into the center of Derek’s chest so that he falls akimbo onto the bed. 

Derek lets out an, “Oof,” and watches as Stiles shimmies out of his jeans and boxers so that he’s just standing there, naked, hard. Derek feels exposed just looking; something hot and shameful washes over him.

“Dude, are you blushing?” Stiles asks, delighted, and rushes forward to kneel on the bed beside Derek’s spread legs.

“I don’t do that,” Derek lies.

“No, you totally do, obviously,” Stiles says disrespectfully, tracing along Derek’s collar bone with one finger. “Look at you.”

“I’m the Alpha,” Derek insists.

“Look at you,” Stiles repeats, almost reverent, the hollows of his cheeks flattening out as he smiles. He puts a hand on Derek’s thigh, hot through Derek’s jeans. 

“I can’t look at myself,” Derek grumbles, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. He wants to get up and go outside and run, _run_ , but he’d have to come back eventually, and then Stiles would still be waiting here, lingering, sad, or murderously angry with his power sparking in the palms of his hands, so Derek stays still, breathing shakily. Stiles pats his knee and then leans forward to kiss him. Derek knows even as Stiles breathes into his mouth that it’s just a distraction––he can feel Stiles trail his fingers up Derek’s leg and start working at the button at the fly of his jeans––and it’s not that he appreciates being treated like some sort of fragile coltish creature, but he likes the noise Stiles makes when he reaches up to cup Stiles’s jaw in his hands, and the way he sighs a little when Derek reaches behind and strokes the short hairs at the nape of his neck, so he doesn’t say anything.

Stiles starts pulling at Derek’s pants and he helps kick them off; his boxers tangle in the zipper and the whole mess gets stuck around his left ankle, but at that point Stiles has straddled him fully and Derek is clutching onto Stiles’s ribcage and they’re still kissing, they’ve never stopped, so Derek forgets about trying to bend his foot in a direction it was never meant to be bent and focuses instead on the breadth of Stiles’s shoulders above him, the spray of freckles across his shoulders left over from last summer’s gardening, the sharp point of his Adam’s apple and the tendons shadowing his throat. 

When Derek first met Stiles he was too-tall and gawky and strange, and Derek didn’t know what to do with him––now that Stiles has grown into himself Derek still doesn’t know what to do with him. He’s not even sure how they ended up here, really, naked and touching, except that six months ago when they were sitting around drinking beers on Derek’s porch steps, Stiles used Derek’s shoulder to push himself up to a standing position and Derek had caught Stiles’s wrist as he turned to walk towards the Jeep and then couldn’t seem to let go. Stiles had smiled, shyly for him, and said, “Oh, so it’s like that,” and Derek, not knowing what Stiles had meant, had nodded, and then nothing at all had changed except that here they are on a bed, naked and touching in a way that Derek hasn’t touched anyone for years––since Kali, since Kate, since the string of anonymous honest-to-god gloryhole blow jobs he gave in between them when he was fucked up in New York and Laura was too busy to keep track of him all the time. 

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters, and nips at his him, “okay, stop thinking, you weirdo,” and then leans down and puts his mouth on Derek’s dick. 

 _Oh my god,_ Derek thinks, and has to close his eyes, because Stiles knows what he’s doing, or at least Derek is pretty sure Stiles knows what he’s doing––in any case, there aren’t any misplaced teeth and no one’s crying or bleeding, so it’s going better than some of the sex Derek has participated in. Stiles has one fist curled around him and has his other hand on Derek’s hip, pressing him down into the mattress every time Derek tries to buck up without permission. “Fuck,” Derek hisses, clawing into the sheets. “Fuck.”

Stiles pulls off with a horrifyingly loud, smacking _pop!_ and asks, “You okay?” Derek can’t seem to open his eyes but he nods, desperately, straining, and Stiles says, “I’m just gonna––like you practiced, like we practiced,” and Derek has to hide his face in the pillow behind his head but he nods, says, “Yeah, yeah, go––do it, just do it,” and he hears the cap of the lube off and the slick familiar sound of Stiles squeezing some out onto his fingers, then the blessedly cool sensation of Stiles’s hand where Derek’s burning up. Stiles promises, “Just one,” and Derek feels his whole body tense, fight-or-flight-or-fuck. Derek hopes it ends in the last one, but he’s not optimistic.

“You gotta relax, dude,” Stiles admonishes him gently, tapping Derek’s hip with two fingers and then reaches for his hand, which is still clenched in the bedsheets. “It’s not going to work if you’re feeling shitty about it.”

“I’m trying,” Derek grits out, and tries the deep breathing exercise Anya The Werewolf Psychologist recommended he try before he goes to sleep. Stiles waits, holding onto one of Derek’s hands and shifting his hips gently against Derek’s thigh, until suddenly Derek realizes he’s not coiled into one tense, horrible spring and Stiles has already insinuated one slick finger into him, is already working gently on the second. 

“Oh my god,” Derek says, breath hitching. It doesn’t feel like it does when he’s by himself and Stiles is safely in his own bedroom and they’re only connected by Skype or their cell phones––the angle is different––maybe better––and Derek never seems to get the rhythm the way he really wants it. “Oh my god.”

“You don’t have to say that, I’m just a demi-god,” Stiles aw-shucks him. He’s got both fingers in now, in, out, in, in, in, not quite easy but too good to burn. “You can call me Herc for short.”

“Fuck you,” Derek wheezes, and groans as Stiles dips the tip of his third finger in, shallow until––“Wrong way around,” Stiles says around a grin––it isn’t, suddenly, and Stiles brushes against something that makes Derek’s body want to wring itself up, his gut tightening in anticipation, the good kind, the kind that makes him break out in a sweat and breathe Stiles’s name three times, fast, slurring. He feels drugged.

“Oh god,” he thinks Stiles says, brushing against the same spot––he can feel Stiles’s eyes on him as he arches into it, his legs opening even wider, lifting around Stiles, and then he’s not really paying attention but Stiles’s fingers disappear and he hears the crinkle of foil and a plasticky unrolling sound before something else is nudging at him. “You good?” Stiles asks, panting a little. “I wish you’d look at me.”

“I––” Derek says, and forces his eyes open, vision blurry from having them squeezed shut for so long, looks at Stiles for as long as he can before he has to throw a hand over his face and nod. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

Stiles pushes forward, measured, inexorable, steadying himself with one hand on the bed and the other clutched too tightly around Derek’s arm, and Derek can feel himself lose a little of his erection, but he doesn’t ask Stiles to stop and Stiles doesn’t seem to want to, and though it’s achingly slow Derek can’t wish it anything but that. 

“You good? You good?” Stiles keeps asking; Derek’s not really sure if he’s good, if it feels good, but he knows he doesn’t want Stiles to end it, to get up and leave him cold and alone in the ugly dinosaur sheets Stiles forced onto the mattress of Derek’s IKEA pickled pine bedframe with no one but Law & Order: SVU reruns for company, especially since SVU hasn’t been the same since Christopher Meloni left, so he keeps nodding, saying, “Yeah, yeah, come on, Stiles, fuck, please, please, I––please.” 

Stiles does come on, fucks into him, again, again, again. Derek feels tied up in knots and sweaty and desperate, teetering on the brink of some unknowable precipice, ready to fall––but he can tell that Stiles is just smiling above him, indolent, steady, and then Stiles drops his forehead onto Derek’s shoulder, whispers, “Look at you,” again, and Derek can’t hold back anymore, he lets go of Stiles’s side and fists himself, pulls three times and feels everything in his head fizz white, and when he comes back to himself Stiles has carefully pulled out and has collapsed on top of Derek, spent, just barely awake and drooling a little onto his shoulder. Their feet are all tangled and so are their hands and Derek doesn’t know how he feels, exactly, but he’s pretty sure it’s against every law of the universe to feel this peaceful inside. 

“So how’d I do?” Stiles asks, raising himself up on his elbows over Derek. “Did I live up to the legend?”

“No,” Derek replies, kissing his cheek, unable to stop himself. “I’d say you were distinctly subpar.”

“Guess we’ll have to try again and double check,” Stiles laughs, rolling to the side and bringing Derek’s arm with him, wrapping them up together again, inextricable. 


End file.
